“All aircraft stand by,” the astounded controller replied. “Air Force One, you’re almost abeam the runway. I’ll have to take you out for a right turn to Runway Eleven, Runway
One-One. Maintain two-eight-zero on the heading and descend to three thousand.”
Upshaw repeated the instructions. “Two-eight-oh and down to three thousand, Air Force One. Roll the trucks — roll everything you have!”
“Roger.”
Racked with guilt that he suggested they change altitudes, Kirk Upshaw listened while the controller told him the latest weather conditions. If they were lucky, they’d break out of the clouds during their turn to final approach.
“Air Force One, the equipment is rolling.”
“Thanks,” Upshaw said briskly, then ordered Chief Master Sergeant Brewer personally to inform the senior Secret Service agent of their emergency situation.
“Yes, sir,” Brewer said stiffly as he rushed out of the cockpit.
With his mind reeling, Curt Bolton glanced over his left shoulder and saw the scores of jagged holes in the leading edge of the wing. The number-one engine had literally been ripped from its mount, and the second engine was crushed and canted downward at a precarious angle. A greasy trail of blackish-gray smoke poured from the heavily damaged General Electric turbofan.
Bolton pushed harder on the right rudder pedal, banked slightly into the operating engines, and added power to the number-three engine to slow the increasing sink rate. He managed to level the airplane at 2,900 feet.
“Curt,” Upshaw solemnly reported, “we’ve got hydraulic problems… and we’re losing fuel at a hell of a rate.”
Bolton responded in the calmest voice he could muster. “Just take care of the priorities, okay?”
“I’m working on it.”
“We gotta concentrate on getting down in one piece,” Bolton said with an expression of frustration. “Get another message off to Washington. Tell ’em we have heavy damage — that we’re going into Dobbins.”
Upshaw nodded and answered a question from the controller. “We’ve got two engines out and marginal control authority. We’re losing hydraulics and we’ve got fuel pouring out.”
“Copy, Air Force One. The equipment is in place.”
Bolton was beginning to catch glimpses of the ground, but the visibility was still patchy. “What’s the field elevation?”
“It’s — let’s see,” Upshaw muttered as he grabbed the Instrument Landing System Runway 11 approach plate. “A thousand and sixty-eight.”
When the controller advised them to turn and descend to 2,500 feet, Bolton prayed that they would break out of the clouds. He desperately wanted to get the airplane on the ground as quickly as possible. In its present condition, the wounded Boeing was extremely difficult to handle.
He recalled the United Flight 232 crash landing at Sioux City. After an engine component in a DC-10 disintegrated, the tail-mounted engine exploded and severed the hydraulic systems that powered the primary flight controls. Constantly adjusting the thrust of the wing-mounted engines, the pilots skillfully maneuvered the airplane to the Sioux City Airport, but lost control in the final seconds of the approach. The horrifying crash landing killed 111 people, while 187 survived. Bolton desperately wanted to avoid a similar fate.
“Air Force One,” the controller said in an even voice, “I’m going to set you up with the ILS Runway One-One approach — keepin’ ya in close.”
“Appreciate it.”
The president knew they’d had a midair collision. It was obvious that the airplane was staggering through the air. Along with the other passengers, the president was suddenly startled when another airplane thundered close over the top of Air Force One. The sound of the passing engines was extremely loud, and a sharp jolt from the severe turbulence of the wing tip vortices shook the huge Boeing. For an instant Macklin allowed a tinge of panic to grip him. He wanted to talk to the pilots, but he knew they had their hands full trying to get the airplane on the ground. Macklin had a gut feeling. Something is very wrong.
The president started to get up, then sat down when two Secret Service agents pounded on the door.
“Come in,” he uttered.
The agents rushed in and almost fell over Macklin.
“Sir, are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Mr. President,” the senior agent exclaimed in a commanding voice, “we’ve had an accident, and we’re going to be landing at Dobbins.”
“Is everyone okay?”
The agent ignored the question. “We need to seat you in a different section of the airplane. Please follow us.”
Staring into the hazy, opaque clouds, Curt Bolton wrestled the controls of the unsteady 747 as he worked hard to level the aircraft at 2,500 feet. He and Upshaw had performed a flight control check and decided to increase their approach speed by fifteen knots. The flaps were set for the airplane’s current configuration, and the pilots were delaying the lowering of the landing gear until they were sure they could make it to the runway.
While Upshaw used the PA system to brief the president and the other passengers about the impending emergency landing, Bolton made judicious throttle corrections to follow the heading changes issued from the new approach controller.
“Air Force One, keep it comin’.”
The sudden utterance of a drawling, experienced voice was a comforting surprise for the VIP pilots. The senior controller at Dobbins had been placed in charge of Air Force One.
On base leg to Runway 11, Bolton finally made visual contact with the surrounding terrain. Seconds later he saw the 10,000-foot runway in the distance. A sigh of relief swept over him as he nursed the battered Boeing toward the air base. For Upshaw’s benefit, Bolton jabbed a finger in the direction of the airfield.
“I see it,” the copilot exclaimed, staring through the light, intermittent rain. “Thank God and General Electric!”
Lieutenant Colonel Skip Tornquist, the flight leader of the F-15s that had escorted Air Force One to Atlanta, taxied to a halt on the ramp at Dobbins ARB. He watched the E-3 AWACS land, then raised his canopy and glanced at the fire trucks racing toward the runway. Seconds later, as he egressed from the cockpit, Tornquist stopped and stared at a lumbering 747 as it emerged from the rain-swollen clouds. “Oh, my God,” he said to himself as he recognized the famous Flying White House. Jesus, they’re missing an engine.
In obvious trouble, the airplane was flying in a strange, wing-down, nose-up attitude. What happened?
When Tornquist reached the pavement, he and his fellow pilots stared in total shock as Air Force One staggered toward the runway. Tornquist clenched his fists. They aren’t going to make it.
Curt Bolton spotted the sprawling Lockheed Aircraft complex, then saw the array of fire trucks and emergency equipment awaiting them. “They’ve rolled out the welcome mat.”
“Let’s hope we won’t need it.”
“Air Force One” the relaxed controller said in a monotone, “continue your turn to… right to one-one-zero. The runway’ll be at your twelve o’clock, four and a half miles.”
“We have it in sight,” Upshaw reported with a rush of excitement as he rechecked and identified the localizer frequency. The inbound course was set on 109 degrees and the glideslope and localizer were coming to life. They were intercepting the final course low and in close.
“I’m keepin’ you in tight,” the controller stated in a confident voice. “You’re cleared ILS Runway One-One.”